


Don't Fix It

by Ort



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: 17th Century, Accidental Baby Yoda Acquisition, Alternate Universe, Angst, Din is a good dad, Family Feels, Fantasy elements, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, ManDadlorian, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Some warnings are not stated for the sake of spoilers, Sort Of, adopted families, but i will put trigger warnings for chapters where they apply, it's star wars but also not, possible future relationships, return of Cara the (space) lesbian and Din the disaster (space)... single father?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:34:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27926824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ort/pseuds/Ort
Summary: Din Djarin’s life happens in two:Before and After.***A 17th Century Period AU where Din is still a struggling bounty hunter turned ill-prepared father, but with a little more swords and a little less space.  And perhaps a bit of 'magic.'
Relationships: Baby Yoda (The Mandalorian TV) & Din Djarin, Din Djarin & Boba Fett, Din Djarin & Cara Dune
Comments: 15
Kudos: 48





	1. I - The Night Watch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have degrees, a love for art history and, now, an obsession with the Mandalorian. So here we are.
> 
> Thank you to JinMukang for the title, even if it was just a joke. :>
> 
> (translations, if there are any, will be at the bottom)

“This is utterly dehumanizing.” 

Din doesn’t react other than to quietly shift his glass to his other hand, effectively avoiding Cara’s flailing hands, as she growls her complaints under her breath. The same cannot be said for the poor servant who happens to pass by at that moment; one of Cara’s hands hits him square across the cheek, sure to leave a bruise, and Din winces beneath his helm as the boy staggers, blindsided. There’s a second of stunned silence between the trio, before Cara lifts her chin high and bares her teeth in a wicked snarl. 

“Begone,” she hisses. If he didn’t know her too well, Din might’ve missed the hitch in her breath. Either way, the servant is thoroughly convinced; he bows, frantic, before scuttling away. Din watches him go, before tilting his head to the side to catch Cara’s ear. 

“That was cruel.” 

Cara’s eyes flash beneath her bangs, the stiff ringlets on either side of her face swaying as she turns to look at him. 

“I am  _ trying _ to stay in character.” She eyes him up and down, gaze lingering on where his right pauldron should be visible; instead, a great swath of fabric covers his shoulders, falling down his back like a cape. 

_ ‘An oversized scarf,’  _ Cara had joked when Greef had presented it to him. 

_ ‘To cover your crest,’  _ Greef had explained, rolling his eyes when Din had scoffed. 

_ ‘I don’t want to cover my crest.’ _

_ ‘It’s either that, or you forgo the armor-’  _

_ ‘The armor stays.’  _

_ ‘Then so does the cape.’  _

“You just have to stand there,” Cara’s voice brings him from his thoughts and back to the present; she’s scowling, watching the room with clear distaste. “I have to actually pretend.” 

Din follows her gaze to where a group of women stand, clustered together, chatting amongst themselves. 

“You need simply be you,” Cara sighs. “In the middle of it all, yet completely separate. You’re out of place, but purposefully so; no one looks at you and thinks it odd you’re here, other than for the simple fact of that you are rare.” 

She takes a long sip from her glass. 

Din swishes his own glass around. The wine, deep red and fragrant, seems to dance in the light of the ballroom. “You’re beginning to sound wistful.” 

“I am wistful. Wistful for my breeches.” 

Din chuckles as Cara looks forlornly down at her dress, as if wishing it and all its adornments would go up in flames. He leans over, lifting his hand to delicately correct one of her out of place curls. 

“Careful,” he whispers and delights in the way she tenses. “Continue talking like that, and everyone will realize we’re spies.” 

“Careful,” she shoots back, moving away from him. “Continue touching me, and not even your fancy armor will protect you from my fist.” 

“Just playing the part,” Din sighs, straightening up to nod at a passing duo of gentlemen. He is grateful, not for the first time, for the helm covering his face; the latest fashion trends of the nobility in these parts is rather atrocious, he thinks. He doesn’t believe he could mask his dislike were his face uncovered.

Around them, the ballroom is a hubbub of laughter and conversation. The whole place seems to be bathed in a golden hue, the glow of a large chandelier alighting on smiling faces and vivid dress. Behind Din and Cara, overlooking the small table they’ve managed to sequester for their drinks, a large painting hangs on the wall. The figures in the painting are all curves and colour, dancing in the spaces between dark shadows; Din spares the work a passing glance as he surveys the room. 

“Where did Greef even manage to find this?” Cara asks and, when Din turns to look at her, she has handfuls of the skirt of her outfit clutched tightly in her fists. Din shrugs. 

“I’m sure he has contacts within the nobility of every part of the world.” 

“You’re exaggerating.” 

“Only slightly.” 

He doesn’t hear Cara’s reply; there’s a commotion by the entrance, a flurry of movement, the raising of voices, and then a burst of raucous laughter. The crowd parts and, for just a moment, Din see’s their target. 

He’s standing in the doorway, dressed in what Din assumes is the highest of fineries for someone in his position, turning away from a servant’s offered tray of drinks to kiss the hand of a waiting lady. She fans herself with her hand, plush lips parting in a smile, and the man grins, before gesturing to the rest of the room with a flourish of his gloved hand. The sleeves of his doublet flutter as he walks. 

“Do you envy the curls?” Cara asks, downing her drink and setting the glass on a nearby table; at Din’s questioning hum, she nods to where their target has stopped to examine his own reflection in one of the grand mirrors hanging on the wall. His hair lays in thick curls over his shoulders, bouncing delightfully as he tosses his hand, laughing. 

He reminds Din of a rather ugly pony. 

“I’ve never had the opportunity to even consider them,” he says, placing his glass down as well. “Shall we go introduce ourselves?” 

“If we must,” Cara relents, then eyes his untouched wine. “Are you going to drink that?” 

The silent stare of Din’s visor seems to be answer enough, as Cara leans over and finishes his drink as well.

“Let’s finish this quickly,” she says, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, and then, with a sort of full body shake, she sets her shoulders back and begins to make her way towards their target, chin held high. Din follows close behind at a steady pace, the people parting around him; all the better for it. Cara’s dress, a deep, almost bloody, red, billows out as she walks, the two-puffed style of her sleeves making her shoulders seem even broader than normal; she seems to take up twice as much room as she usually does. The crowd withers under her stern gaze, and falls even further back as Din brings up the rear, the gleam of his armor a stark contrast to rich fabrics surrounding him. 

He puffs his chest out a little more, prideful despite himself. He can feel their eyes on him, filled with not only fear, but cautious admiration as well. 

_ They’ve probably never seen someone like me before, _ he thinks as he watches a young woman lower her gaze as he passes.  _ I am like a living myth to them.  _

Sometime during his musings, he and Cara have ended up on the other side of the ballroom; their target is none the wiser, preoccupied by a flock of frilled dresses and slender wrists. Din waits patiently as Cara approaches with a small ‘ahem,’ extending her hand.

Their target turns with mild surprise, his gaze lingering on the length of her arm, before his smile returns and he’s bending at the waist to touch his lips to her skin. Din smothers a chuckle when Cara’s mouth twists in disgust, but she covers it up nicely as their target straightens once more, gracing him with a polite, if slightly forced, smile. 

“Marquess Walden,” Cara greets, giving a slight curtsy of her own. Din bites his lip. 

“Ah, Lady…?” Their target starts, tilting his head in question. Cara smirks, slipping her hand from his grasp. 

“Dystra. Lady Dystra.” Their target is clearly about to ask more, but Cara cuts him off with a sharp smile. “I am honored to be here, My Lord.” 

“Ah, yes, Lady Dystra.” He nods to Din as well. “I dare say, you keep the most interesting of company; I’ve not had the pleasure of meeting a  _ Mandalorian _ before.”

Din inclines his head, silent, and secretly delights in the way their target swallows, before awkwardly turning his attention back to Cara

“Lady Drysta, where, might you remind me, do you hail from? I can’t seem to recall any of our previous meetings...” 

“East of here,” Cara says with a wave. Their target smiles, lips a tight line, and Din tenses. As subtly as he can, he presses his elbow against Cara’s side. A warning. 

He wonders if she can even feel it through the dress.

“My Lord,” Cara leans in. “I must inquire as to the health of the Marchioness. Has the Lady been enjoying the fair weather this season?” 

When the crowd around them falls silent, a sort of awkward tension filling the air, Din knows they’ve messed up. Something flashes in their target’s eyes, his shoulder tensing, and Din knows Cara knows it too. She steps back, still smiling.

“Unfortunately,” the target says in a thin voice. “The Marchioness passed away earlier this year.” 

Din swallows, placing his hand over the sword at his side. 

“Ah, forgive me,” Cara stammers, laughing a little as she places her hands behind her back. “I’m sorry to say I was not made aware of such news.” 

“Surprising,” their target says, arching an eyebrow. Out of the corner of his eye, Din watches two men step forward, each of them wearing the target’s insignia, stitched in blue on the breast of their doublets. The target places his own drink on the tray of a waiting servant and fumbles with the cuff of his glove. “I was sure I had had all of the noble houses of this country made aware of her untimely passing…” 

He steps forward. Around them, the crowd watches with nervous anticipation. True to her nature, Cara stands her ground, even as their target leans in close, so that his lips ghosting the curve of her ear. 

“Now, tell me again - where is it that you hail from?” 

There’s a beat of silence, a stand off between the two of them, and then Cara shifts her weight, her arms tensing beneath the curve of her sleeves. Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Din’s gaze. 

“Ah, fuck it,” Cara mutters. 

She’s quiet as she slides her dagger from its sheath hidden in the folds of her skirt; she’s even quieter as she slides the blade across their target's neck, her other hand coming around to snatch the fabric at his shoulder and hold him still. There’s a burst of blood, the white of his lace collar turning to match Cara’s own dress, and then the screams begin; it starts with a shriek, an older woman going pale as she falls back into the arms of her companion. 

“Stars above!” she cries and madness descends unto the rest of the guests. Din doesn’t wait to see the complete fallout of Cara’s actions; he twists, drawing his own blade, and brings it up in time to block the downward arc of his opponent’s sword; one of the men from before stands in front of him, mouth a grim line as he tries to contest Din’s strength. Their blades slide against each other, the sound cutting through the cacophony of the room, before they part, only to come crashing together once more. 

They trade blows, sizing each other up, and Din finds himself thoroughly unimpressed; the man is sloppy, aiming more for brute strength than finesse, and he’s becoming more so as their fight continues. With a growl of frustration, the man brings his sword down hard against Din’s, the impact ringing out through the room, and Din smirks; with a twist of his wrist, his opponent’s blade clatters to the ground, the man’s startled grunt turning into a frantic curse as Din steps into his space and arcs his own sword down across the man’s front. 

The line red that seeps through from shoulder to hip is satisfying in a way that Din thinks most people wouldn’t understand. The man falls, clutching at his chest, but Din doesn’t waste time watching. Instead, he turns to see Cara dispose of the other man, still holding their target up by the shoulder.

The ballroom is a mess of screaming guests and frantic flutter; Din grabs their target from Cara, hefting the man over his shoulder and allowing Cara to hike her dress up with one hand. The dress looks relatively untouched, despite what he knows must have been a bloody fight; Din wonders if Greef chose the colour red on purpose.

“Move,” Cara grunts, pointing her dagger towards the exit. Her carefully styled hair has become an unruly nest of flyaways. Din obliges her command, sweeping his sword out to ward off any others who may try to get in their way; fortunately, the crowd is rather accommodating, parting before him with wide eyes and pale faces. Cara follows in his wake, grinning like a madman as she steals a glass from a bewildered servant. 

“Thanks,” she says and then the two of them make their leave, pushing through the large double doors of the ballroom and out into the main hall of the manor. They make their way quickly towards the front door, slipping past stunned servants and a single guard, who hastily steps aside when he sees Din. 

Outside, the cool air of the Summer evening hits them like a wave of relief, and Din shifts the body on his shoulder so that it rests more comfortably. 

“Well that was awful… do you think they’ll still be there?” Cara asks as they walk quickly through the courtyard. Din doesn’t have to reply; there, amidst the rows of hired carriages and pampered steeds, their own two horses stand, tied to a nearby post. Din ignores the wide eyed look of a young coachman in favor of letting out a single sharp whistle. Crest looks up at his approach, snorting good naturedly as Din unties her, dumps the target over her back, and then climbs up into her saddle. Cara mounts her ride as well, cursing when her dress makes it difficult. 

“You could always ride side-saddle,” Din quips when she’s finally seated, looking more than a little uncomfortable. Cara just glares at him. 

“Let’s just get to the rendezvous point before the guard arrives,” she mutters and Din hums in agreement, before urging Crest forward and out onto the open road. 

* * *

“Ah, Mando!” 

Din scowls beneath his helmet, shoulders hunching on reflex. Blin Olen doesn’t seem to notice, continuing to wipe down his counter with an old rag, smiling; even when Cara stalks up to the bar and plants the blade of her dagger into the wood, the man just quirks an eyebrow before taking a tankard down from the bar shelf and filling it with ale. Cara takes it without a word, sniffing it before taking a long drag. 

The rest of the tavern is empty, save for a small group of three in the corner. Din catches a few of their stares as he dumps the target onto the floor, but they quickly turn back to their drinks, their heads bowed and hidden by hooded cloaks. 

“That’ll be the one Master Greef spoke of? I had heard you were supposed to bring him in alive,” the tavern keeper muses. 

“You spoke with Greef?” Cara pushes her drink away. Olen shrugs. 

“Spoke to. Heard about. Tis all the same difference.” He takes the tankard, giving Cara a questioning glance. She shakes her head and he nods, beginning to wipe the tankard clean. “News travels fast in the underground and, well, Master Greef does enjoy bragging.” 

Cara rolls her eyes, pushing away from the bar. 

“ _ Master Greef _ should know better.” 

Olen just shrugs again and then nods to the body Din has just dropped. 

“You’d better not leave that there.”

Din only inclines his head, stretching out his shoulder; his bites back a groan as it creaks. Olen looks on with a grimace of sympathy. He doesn’t offer Din a drink. 

“Will you be stayin’ the night?” 

Cara huffs. 

“Only if you have a place we can store  _ this _ -” She points to the target. “- until Greef’s crew arrives.” 

“Madame, Master Greef’s  _ crew _ are already there,” Olen says and Din looks to see the group in the corner rise. He has a hand on his hip before they can make it one collective step, drawing and aiming his pistol at the closest woman. She curls her lip, but stops, eyeing the barrel of his gun. 

“Careful,” Cara says, somewhere behind him. “That’s a Mandalorian weapon. Far more accurate than even those new flintlocks you see the nobles waving about.”

A murmur rises within the group.

“You’re Greef’s people?” Din asks, tilting his head. 

“Yes.” 

“Prove it.” 

The woman hesitates, glancing around the tavern, before withdrawing a hand into her cloak. Din can hear Cara readying her own weapon, but the woman simply produces a small locket and holds it out for him to see. The insignia flashes in the dim torchlight of the tavern.

“Fair enough,” Din says and holsters his gun. 

“And what of you?” The woman asks and she tucks the locket away. “How are we to know you are indeed one of Master Greef’s as well?” 

“I’m a Mandalorian,” Din replies. “Everyone within Greef’s circle should know who I am.” 

The woman scoffs, but relents and Din allows her to step around him. The other two of her group do as well and the three of them kneel beside the body, inspecting it quietly. Cara stands nearby, her arms crossed. 

“I expect Greef gave you the payment for this one, then?” She inquires, leaning over the woman. 

“Of course - though it’ll be the smaller price, seeing as this one here is in… less than optimal condition.” 

“Less optimal condition, my ass-” Cara starts, her dagger at ready, but Din steps over and grabs her arm. 

“It’s fine,” he hisses out. “We’ll take it. Whatever it is.” 

The payment is exchanged, Cara scowling the entire time, but Din ignores her. He’s tired and sore from riding, and more than ready to sleep. He pockets his share of the bounty. On the bar counter, Olen lays a large bronze room key. 

“I’m ‘fraid I’ve only one room left, tonight.” He nods towards the ceiling. “Busy city. Late night customers.” He winks and Din rolls his eyes, reaching over to grab the key. 

“We’ll see our way out.” It’s the woman, her two companions with the body held between them. They say nothing as they turn towards the door and leave, their boots clicking softly on the wood floor. The woman watches them go, before she makes to follow, pausing in the doorway to turn back to Din. 

“Mandalorian,” she says. “I would take care not to think so narrowly to believe you are the only one of your kind in this country.” 

Din freezes, staring at her in muted shock; he moves towards her, intent on stopping her. 

“ _ What? _ ”

But the woman only gives a small bow, before sweeping out the door, her cloak billowing out behind her. The door to the tavern shuts. 

Din almost goes after her, but Cara stops him with a touch to the arm. 

“What are you doing?” 

“She knows about other-” 

“She’s an old woman who works for Greef collecting caught bounties. She’s not worth your time.” 

Din doesn’t know how to explain to Cara the significance of the woman’s words without retelling the last 10 years of his life, and he certainly isn’t willing to do that in front of Olen, who seems to be taking far too much pleasure in watching the scene in front of him play out, if his poorly concealed smile is anything to go by. 

“C’mon,” Cara says and takes the key from his hand. She nods her thanks to Olen and then leaves through a door to the side of the bar, leaving Din no choice but to follow. Olen offers him a quiet ‘goodnight’ and then the door shuts and Din is in a small, dimly lit stairway; Cara is already at the top, clearly waiting for him. 

When they open the door to their room, she audibly sighs, shoulders drooping. 

“One bed,” Din says, stating the painfully obvious. Cara growls under her breath. 

“Don’t get any ideas,” she mutters and proceeds to plop herself down on the bed, tilting her head back with groan. 

“No ideas here,” Din replies and walks over to a small chair, placing his pistol on the seat and his sword against the wall, in the corner. 

“Good,” Cara says, falling back onto the bed. “Because I don’t swing that way anyway.” She takes on an expression of deep pondering, before she looks at Din, giving him a critical eye. Din watches and crosses his arms. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Cara says and then smirks. “Just wondering.” 

“Wondering what?”

“Nothing important.” 

She laughs when Din glares at her, clearly obvious despite the armor, and then, rather unceremoniously, begins trying to get out of her dress. Din watches her struggle for a moment, practically ripping at the dress; it’s stiff in some place, coated in dried blood, and Din winces when he hears and obvious tear. 

“Do you acquire assistance, My Lady?” 

Cara nearly kills him with her glare, but slowly turns and allows him to help her remove her top gown and undo the ribbon from her waist. 

“I hate this thing,” she spits as she nearly rips off her stomacher and tosses it to the ground. 

“Easy with that; I’m sure Greef paid an idiotic amount for all this.” 

“He can yell at me all he wants when we next see him. For now, however I can get this off so I can sleep, it’s coming off.” 

It takes more than a few minutes for Cara to undress, which, by then, has left her rather disheveled and panting. She throws the clothing in the corning, standing in only a pair of bodies and a smock, and Din turns away as she begins trying to undo the rest of her ties. 

“You could just cut it,” he calls back over his shoulder when she begins to complain under her breath; she laughs and, after a few more minutes, the ruffling of sheets alerts him that she’s crawled into bed. 

“Will you be joining me, good Sir,” Cara jokes when he turns back around. 

“I’m afraid not,” he says and goes to stand by the window. “I’ll take first watch.” 

“We’re in a  _ tavern _ , Mando,” Cara says. “Do you ever relax? Three years we’ve worked together, and not once do I think I’ve seen you so much as lay down.” 

“I’ll rest once we return to Nevarro.” 

“That’ll be another day’s travel, at least.” 

“Then I’ll sleep after that.” 

Much to his relief, and mild amusement, Cara lets it go, simply turning over in bed and blowing out the candle on the side table. 

“Do as you will,” she mumbles, voice already muffled with sleep. “Just don’t watch me all night.” 

“I won’t,” Din promises, still looking out the window. Within minutes, Cara is snoring. 

He stands there for a while longer, staring down to the street below; it’s empty, the late night bringing with it a blanket of silence that it casts over this part of the city. In the distance, Din can see torch light - someone out for a nightly stroll, perhaps? He doubts it. In a few hours, the sun will rise, and he’s not ignorant enough to believe that anyone out at such a late hour is up to anything innocent, himself included. 

When he grows tired of the window, Din takes his pistol from the chair and his sword from the corner, and quietly leaves, locking the door behind him. The hallway is silent, save for someone snoring in a room further down the hall. 

Downstairs, Din finds Olen sleep behind the counter, bent over a keg. He considers waking him, but decides against it and, instead, slips out the door unnoticed. 

Crest blinks owlishly as he passes her where she and Cara’s steed are tied up, but he only pats her snout before turning the corner of the building and walking into the alleyway. There’s a few crates stacked against the outside and he scales them easily, balancing on the top and then jumping just enough to get a grip on the first story ledge. He continues climbing, careful not to make too much noise; years of living in beskar have given him enough prowess at sneaking that he makes it to the roof unnoticed by both tavern patrons and other city dwellers alike. He sits, spreading out Greef’s cape beneath him, and proceeds to clean his pistol, the action methodical and meditative. 

Above him, the sky is clear, a field of stars stretched out for as far as he can see; Din wonders, idly, as he wipes down the barrel of his gun, how many there really are. He imagines watching them disappear one by one as the sun rises.

Come morning, he and Cara will begin their journey back to Nevarro. They’ll report to Greef and relay whatever information they’ve gathered. Din will go back to his shitty lodgings and drink and eat and sleep until Greef comes to him with a new mission. And then he’ll go and do it all over again. 

Somewhere, in the distance, a horse whinnies. There’s a shout, and then another, and then silence.

A door closes. 

Din sits on the roof and waits. 


	2. II - Suffer Little Children to Come Unto Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This, obviously, will not be following canon plot exactly. Probably less so in the future.

Din Djarin’s life happens in two: 

_ Before _ and  _ After _ . 

  
  


_ Before _ is good.  _ Before _ is training and tribe. His  _ buir’s  _ strong arms and stories. His  _ aliit _ at mealtimes, surrounded by chatter and smiles and soft words.  _ Before _ is the fire of a familiar forge and the strike of a hammer on beskar. 

_ Before _ is what Din thinks about when he’s too drunk to stop himself; when he’s stuck in a misted daze of ale and sorrow. 

  
  


_ After _ is hollow.  _ After _ is the guild. The bounties.  _ After _ is a small apartment in the middle of a dirty city where the windows don’t close all the way and he takes his meals hidden in the only closet space the place has.  _ After _ is banter with Cara, to distract himself when  _ Before _ tries to slink its way back into his mind.

_ After _ is hollow, but it’s good, too.  _ After _ keeps him in check, because  _ After _ reminds him that there was a time between  _ Before _ and  _ After _ , and After tells him to  _ never  _ think about the  _ Inbetween _ . 

  
  
  
  


The ride back to Nevarro is long.

Cara complains for a good portion of it, whether it’s about the feel of her saddle, or the gait of her horse, or the itch of her borrowed clothes. Din huffs as Cara readjusts her breeches for what must be the hundredth time. 

“Too big,” she growls, glaring at her legs. “And horribly scratching around the knees.” 

“Just last night you were complaining about the dress, and now you’re going to complain about these as well?” 

“You aren’t allowed to judge me, Mando. You carry your entire wardrobe with you everywhere.” 

“Just be grateful Greef arranged for there to be an extra set for you at the tavern,” Din replies, and steers Crest around a sunket dip in the road. He leans forward to run a hand down her neck, ending it with a firm pat over her shoulder. 

Cara doesn’t grace him with an answer, choosing instead to reach into one of her saddle bags and procure a small leather bag; she digs around inside for a bit, before producing a handful of dried fruit. 

She doesn’t bother offering any to Din, but she does make a point of keeping the bag in hand after she’s had her fill, her gaze shifting over to Din every once and awhile. 

He never takes up the unspoken offer, but he’s grateful nonetheless. 

Despite the length of their journey, they make good time; the lights of Nevarro flicker into existence on the horizon just as dusk befalls the land and, as they crest one of the many hills surrounding the city, Din allows his shoulders to slump ever so slightly. He wants nothing more than to curl up on his old mattress and sleep for a few hours. 

Cara seems to be thinking something similar, if the way she lets out a long sigh is any indication; she tilts her head back, closing her eyes and allowing the smallest of smiles to grace her lips. 

“Happy?” Din asks, amused. Cara just nods and then, with perhaps a bit too much force, urges her horse onwards. Din follows close behind. The city is mostly quiet by the time they enter through the main gate, the old houses and buildings reminding Din of dark and twisted trees, and he can’t help but take comfort in the weight of his sword at his side as he and Cara make their way through the long shadows. 

When they finally come upon the entrance to the Guild’s Main House, it’s only to be greeted by a young woman standing in the doorway; she holds up a hand to halt them, but the roundness of her face belies her youth. She regards them with wide eyes, her gaze lingering on Din’s helm, but she stands her ground and waits for Cara to flash her Guild Locket, before stepping aside. 

“I’ll do the debriefing,” Cara says and she slips down from her saddle. Din is about to protest, but she waves him off and he relents rather easily. “I know you didn’t sleep last night, Mando,” Cara says with a knowing smirk and hands him her horse’s reins. “So go back to wherever you hide after jobs and actually rest for once.” 

He watches her go, slipping past who he assumes is Greef’s new door guard and into the light of the inn-turned-Guild House. The young woman resumes her position in front of the door. 

“Here,” Din says and leans over in his saddle to hand her the reins of Cara’s steed, as well as a few credits. She takes them hesitantly, sending him a questioning look. 

“That’s one of Greef’s loaners,” he says and nods to the Guild House. “I expect you know where to take him…?” 

The woman nods, pocketing the credits, and begins to lead the horse away. Before she turns the corner, however, she looks back, casting a scrutinizing gaze over Din. He tilts his head. 

“You’re the Mandalorian,” she says, and it’s not a question. Din nods anyways. She says nothing more, only pursing her lips and then walking away, the horse in tow. Din sits for a moment, quiet, before Crest grows impatient and begins to paw at the ground, reminding him of his sore body and weary mind. He lets her take him down familiar streets, hardly needing to direct her; she knows the way back to their shelter as well as he does. Even after he dismounts and rids her of her saddle and other dressings, he need only trail behind her as she slowly plods to the stable, letting out a satisfying huff as she makes herself comfortable in her stall. Din fills her water and feed, and then leaves her with a pat on the nose, smiling to himself. The stable is small, occupied only by Crest and a rather poorly looking donkey, who belongs to one of the other tenants of Din’s building, or so he assumes. The bedraggled thing never seems to leave the stable, its food and water always full despite its apparent solitude. 

Din finishes with Crest, leaving her to whatever business she gets up to in the night and, as he passes on his way to the house, extends a hand to the donkey, chuckling when the animal leans into the touch. 

The house isn’t really a house; Din supposes it was once a small hut, perhaps from the city’s early beginnings, that was built upon as the population grew. Now, it looks more like a strange amalgamation of stone and brick and wood, combined to form a peculiar mix of shelters, crammed between the newer stone houses that sit on either side. It has a bitch of a draft, and there’s little the walls can do to block out the noise, but Din lives alone and Greef doesn’t ask for much, so Din doesn’t complain. He pushes his way through the main door, the wood creaking on its hinges, and slowly makes his way down the small hallway to the furthest most door. It opens with a good shove; there’s no lock, but a mix of reputation and a lack of having anything of value keeps Din from worrying about break-ins. 

He drags his feet across the threshold and sighs, leaning back against the door as it closes once more, and takes a look around the small room. 

Finally. 

His routine is the same; he goes and shuts the windows as best he can, drawing close the stiff yellowed linen and, in the case of one, forcing close the old shutter as best he can. He lights a candle, lip curling at the scent, and places it on the small table. He takes a few strips of dried meat from the cupboard and jug of water from the shelf and stuffs himself into the storage space of the room, closing the door as best he can with his foot. 

Then he slips his helmet from his head, breathes in the stale air of this small, dark closet, and eats.

The food goes quick, as does the water, so Din puts the helmet back on and makes his way to the small cot in the corner, ignoring the stiffness of his limbs as he drops Greef’s scarf to the floor and lays down, drawing the threadbare blanket over himself. Somewhere, in another room, a woman is singing to a crying child. Outside, a man shouts in the streets. Din’s armor is a familiar weight on his chest and breathes, deeply, and then sleeps. 

* * *

He wakes to banging on his door; the whole room seems to shudder with the force of it and, as he drags himself off his cot and to his feet, Din wonders if the walls will stay standing in the face of whoever has come to find him.

He could bet all his credits on who it is. 

“Good morrow, Mando!” Cara exclaims when he opens the door. Din just stares at her, torn between punching the grin off her face and falling asleep where he’s standing. He chooses something in the middle, shoving his way past her and deliberately allowing his pauldron to clip her shoulder as he does. 

“Rude,” she hisses as she turns to follow him. 

Outside, Crest whinnies softly when she sees him and Din can’t help but smile. He leans against the stable post and waits for Cara to reveal why she’s come to get him at such an ungodly hour. 

“I thought you told me to get some rest,” he says dryly as she approaches. 

“That was before Greef demanded I come and ‘retrieve you’ for him.” 

“He has another job already?” 

Cara just shrugs, leaning around him to pat Crest on the nose. The horse nibbles at her fingers. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Cara says and rolls her eyes. “Your master spoils you.” She opens her palm for Crest to inspect. “I’ve no treats for you today.” 

“How dishonorable,” Din says, letting the smile seep into his voice. In the next stall over, the donkey brays. Din sighs and pushes himself off from the post. “Alright, then. Let’s go. We’ve kept Greef waiting long enough.” 

They walk briskly through the alleyways, avoiding the main streets as best they can. Nevarro is a city ruled by the underground, but that doesn’t stop either of them from taking precaution. Din draws his cloak tighter around him. 

The Guild House is alive with chatter and people; the same woman from the night before is at the door, looking dead on her feet. She lets them in without a fight, leaning on the doorframe and looking as though she’d rather be anywhere else. Din silently sympathizes. 

Inside, the crowd is raucous and happy on ale. Din skirts a few fistfights in the making, pushing back when a few members get too close. Most of the people here are bounty hunters, with a few mercenaries and common spies scattered throughout, but Din finds no companionship in them. He scowls as he passes a duo of men at the bar, their smiles wicked and gaping as they lean over in poor attempts to flirt with the bartender. 

“Mando!” 

Greef’s voice cuts through the chorus of voices from the corner, where he’s sat at a round wooden table, a tankard in his hand. Cara nudges Din’s shoulder, before leaving to get a drink of her own and sitting herself down amongst a group of people arm wrestling. Din makes his way over the corner table and eases himself down into one of the surrounding chairs. A tankard of ale is pushed in his direction, but he ignores it. 

Greef Karga smiles as him, all teeth, and leans back, as if this were just a conversation between friends. Din figures the closest thing he has to a friend around here is Cara and, even then, when a job is done, they tend to go their separate ways. Greef, on the other hand, is more like an unfortunate side effect to bounty hunting. 

Din doesn’t say anything, just waits for Greef to grow impatient; it takes a minute. The other man is preoccupied with finishing his drink, but, after a while, he finally reaches into his bag and takes out a small roll of paper. 

“Here, Mando. Take a look at this.” 

The paper is delicate in Din’s hand when he takes it, the material crinkling in the leather of his gloves. There’s a tear through the center. The script is small, the ink blotted in a few places. 

There is only an address, a short message, and then a price. 

Din lets out a whooshing exhale at the last one. Greef nods, knowingly. 

“I figured,” he says, tapping the surface of the table with a finger. “That you might be interested in such a job.” 

Din looks over the small line of instructions on the paper.

“‘The target is to be brought back to Guild House alive, for retrieval…’ Who’s the target?” 

“I’m not sure.” 

“You… okay, who’s the client?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Din places the paper back on the table and leans back, crossing his arms. 

“Is this some kind of joke?” 

Greef has the sense to look somewhat apologetic, even as he sighs and leans forward with his elbows on the table, his hands clasped. 

“Listen, Mando. You know I wouldn’t give you a job unless I thought it was legitimate. And this,” he taps the paper again with his finger. “Showed up only a few nights ago, stabbed into the doorway, along with my last guard boy.” 

Din raises an eyebrow. 

“Where’s the weapon?” 

Greef purses his lips, before glancing around the room and reaching once again into his bag; this time, he pulls out a long thin dagger, its blade cleaned of blood and shining in the firelight of the wooden chandeliers; it’s not beskar, but it’s impressive all the same. The hilt is white ivory, carved into the delicate form of a mace. Greef places it on the table, next to the paper. Din does not touch it. 

“That’s a well made dagger,” he says instead, but his gaze is on Greef. The other man nods. 

“Expensive.” 

“Would have had to come from someone well off.” 

“Indeed. A politician perhaps? Maybe a lord of some sort.” 

“Someone looking to rid themselves of a problem?” 

“One could only assume.” 

Din glances at the paper again. 

“Arvala… seems a bit out there for such a high paying bounty. I thought the city was mostly abandoned at this point.” 

Greef smiles and takes the dagger from the table once more, slipping it back into his bag. 

“All the more reason to hide out there, I suppose,” he says. Din watches him for a moment and then, without taking his eyes off the man across from him, takes the slip of paper in hand and stands. 

“It’ll take a few days. I’ll be leaving at sunset.” 

“You’ll have to go alone - Dune is on a job in Sorgan.” 

Din turns, pulling his cloak tight once more. 

“That’s fine,” he says as he adjusts the fabric. “I’m used to it.”

  
  


Crest is ready to go in a matter of minutes, shaking her head eagerly as Din climbs into the saddle; no one is here to see him off, save for the donkey; Cara is off on her job in Sorgan and Greef tends not to linger after giving a job. Din has packed lightly; Arvala’s far, but Din knows enough stops along the way to keep himself afloat on the journey. He checks his saddle bags one more time, counts his credits, and then, with a nod to the donkey where it watches forlornly from its stall, he heads out.

Nevarro at dusk is a wash of red and gold, coarse sand and rocky ground giving way to water-wanting grassland. To the west, a desert stretches to what Din knows to be the sea, though he’s never been. To the north, lava flats and a great volcanic peak that marks the end of the western mountain range. To the east, Arvala, though a ways away. 

The journey takes longer than anticipated; somewhere between Nevarro and Dagobah, Din is caught in a terrible storm that forces him to seek shelter. By the end of it, both he and Crest are soaked to the bone and miserable. 

They keep to the edges of Dagobah; the province is enshrouded in a dark, thick forest, and Din has heard enough stories to know that whatever lies within its depths is nothing he should concern himself with. Instead, he stops briefly in a small village on its outskirts, keeping the visit quick; the people here are quiet, watching him with eyes that are just a bit too sharp for his liking. He takes the time to stock up on water and rations, but he has no intentions of staying the night. That night, he camps out on a nearby hill, overlooking the province, and he and Crest marvel at how the starlight paints the trees of the great forest silver. 

Forest leads to grassland and then Utapau, though Din doesn’t waste his time lingering here either; he remembers his  _ buir  _ telling him about sinkholes and storms, and of angry peoples. So he stocks up and then takes his leave. 

After that, the road is long and empty. Din encounters only one other traveler; a portly man who nearly trips over himself in an attempt to get out of Din’s path, dropping one of his bags in the meantime. Din considers going after him and returning it, but the man only scrambles away down the road. So Din gains a new bag, a loaf of bread, and a new knife. It makes for a nice road snack. 

Din contents himself, otherwise, by watching the horizon and going through a mental checklist of his supplies. He cleans his pistol, content to let Crest follow the road on her own. He tears apart pieces of bread and slips them beneath his helmet, savoring the flavor and the privacy of the wilderness. He keeps his thoughts from wondering, focusing, instead, on the feeling of Crest’s steady gate beneath him. 

_ Before _ lurks at the edges of his mind like a predator, slinking through the shadows, but Din keeps it at bay with thoughts of hefty pay and a job well done. 

The night before he reaches Arvala, tucking against the trunk of a dying tree, Din dreams. 

It’s only fleeting visions - a smile, soft eyes - and a warmth he hasn’t known in years, but Din still wakes confused and melancholy, blinking up at bare branches through his visor and laying absolutely still in an attempt to regain the already fading feeling of  _ home. _ It’s gone, though, in a matter of seconds and Din wastes no more time trying to remember. He stands, brushes himself off, and continues. 

* * *

“Stay,” Din says, patting Crest’s side as he leaves her tied to an abandoned post to make his way towards the squat set of huts sitting on the edge of a large canyon. There’s a light in one of the windows and Din can see movement within. He lays a hand on the hilt of his sword, hidden by the cloak around his shoulders, and keeps his other on his pistol as he begins the trek down to the cluster of buildings. It’s a farm, he realizes belated; he can see two animals in a nearby field, large hairy things that eye him warily as he passes by, and the remains of what he assumes was once a large farmhouse a little ways away, though it looks to have burnt down some time ago.

When he’s only a few meters from the door, it opens, a figure standing silhouetted in the candlelight. It is short and wrinkled, dressed in heavy cloaks and a wide brimmed hat. Din slows to a stop and tilts his head in greeting. 

“You are a bounty hunter,” the figure says, voice gruff and old, and Din nods. He has nothing to show, no locket to reveal, but he is the Mandalorian, so it takes little convincing for the figure to step aside and usher him into the hut. Din has to duck under the doorway where it sags significantly, but the inside is warm and dry and smelling pleasantly of some sort of stew. There’s a fire going in a small hearth, a cauldron hanging over top. The figure watches from the doorway as Din sets his pistol and sword on the small table by the window. Only once Din is seemingly devoid of weapons (the dagger in his boot remains hidden) does the figure push away from the wall and head over to the cauldron, ladling some of whatever is inside into an old bowl. It is handed to Din, who takes it quietly, before another bowl is filled and the figure sits down on the floor. 

When it becomes clear that Din has no intention of eating, the figure begins to eat quietly. Neither of them talk before the figure’s bowl is cleaned and set aside. 

“You are a bounty hunter,” the figure repeats in that same gravelled tone. Din nods once more. The figure returns the gesture and removes its hat, revealing the weathered face of an older man; he sets the hat down on the ground beside the fire, and looks at Din with one eyebrow raised. “Many have passed through. They seek the same one as you.” 

“Did you help them,” Din asks, gesturing his own uneaten stew. The man nods. 

“Yes. They died.” 

“Then maybe I don’t want your help.” 

“You will need it. I can show you to the encampment, and provide you with a ride.” 

“I already have a steed.” 

The man scoffs, standing slowly; his knees crack as he does. 

“Your horse will not make it down the cliff sides of the canyon. You will need an animal that is much more sure of foot. I will show you to the corral come morning.” 

Din wants to argue that Crest is as sure-footed as they come, but the man simply takes the empty bowl and leaves the room through a small door to their right. As he does, he throws Din a look over his shoulder. 

“I have spoken.” 

* * *

“This is impossible.” 

His head throbs and his back throbs and his legs throb and his hands ache from how they’ve been gripping the reins of the beast the farmer insists he learn to ride. Din lies there in the sand of the small corral and stares at the blue sky with hate. Nearby, the farmer leans on the corral fence; Crest is there as well, taken down from their small camp and given a space among the farmer’s own livestock, which Din has recently discovered consists of only two individuals. The beasts are large, almost as tall as Crest, and covered in thick coarse fur. Vicious horns spiral out from each side of their heads; they remind Din of the northern goat creatures he’s seen in the books from his childhood, though these seem a fair bit leaner.

“Blurrgs are what we call them, in my language,” the farmer had explained. “Similar to the muskoxen in the north mountains.” 

“I’ve never been,” Din admits as he staggers to his feet. 

“A bounty hunter who has never been to the northern range? And a Mandalorian at that?” The farmer seems to find humor in the statement, though Din is hard pressed to understand why. “Is Mandalore not to the north?” The farmer inquires. 

“Aye.” 

“And yet you have not been to the northern range?”

Din does not grace him with a response, a familiar darkness threatening to invade his thoughts; he stalks over to the fence instead and leans his back against it with a weary sigh. The farmer lets him stew in silence for a moment, before whistling the blurrg over once more. 

“Try again,” he says, and there is little room for argument. “You are a Mandalorian; did your ancestors not ride the mythosaur?” 

“That, as the name suggests, is most likely a myth,” Din growls. “And, even if it is not, it is ancient history now.” 

“Yet your people still find great strength in the stories. Are you not taught to ride from a young age? Are you not taught the ancient ways from the moment you can speak?”

“Are you quite done questioning me?” It comes out harsh and bitter, but the farmer simply blinks, muted surprise flashing over his face, before he motions for Din to continue. On the other side of the corral, the blurrg snorts and paws the ground, its great head swinging from side to side. Din watches and feels his will to argue depleted. 

“I don’t think he likes me very much,” he says weakly, in one more attempt to argue. The farmer hums. 

“That is a female. The males often kill each other during mating.” 

* * *

It takes another day and a half for Din to ride the blurrg. It’s only halfway through the first day that the farmer reveals that the two animals had only recently been caught. 

“Ah,” Din says, in the middle of trying to hold on to the animal’s scruff. “So you’re just using me to tame your livestock.” 

The farmer doesn’t disagree. 

By the second day, Din manages to stay on long enough for the animal to tire in its bucking and he cautiously steers his new steed over to the corral gate, hesitantly hopeful as it obeys. Crest watches jealously nearby. 

“Easy, easy,” Din breathes, pulling back slightly and allowing the blurrg to come to a slow stop. 

“Congratulations, Mandalorian,” the farmer says from his usual spot. Din exhales a sigh of relief. 

  
  
  


The farmer brings him as far as the canyon floor; Din isn’t an easy scare, but even he has to admit that the steep path down the canyon wall has him holding his breath more than once. But the farmer had been right; the blurrgs are sure footed, climbing down with little trouble or drama. Din pats his blurrg’s neck once they reach the bottom, whispering a small ‘thank you,’ and the animal lets out a low rumble that he feels through his entire body. 

“I will leave you here, to go collect your bounty.” He pulls the reins of his blurrg. “May you find more luck than those that came before you, Mandalorian.”

Din reaches towards his bag of credits, but the farmer waves him off. 

“I have no use for such things, Mandalorian.” 

“You’ve brought me all the way here-” 

“The end of this is enough; endless streams of mercenaries and bounty hunters have come here, stirring up trouble and disrupting the peace of this area. Now you will put an end to it.” 

Din feels a smile pulling at his lips. 

“You have a lot of faith in me. We’ve only just met and yet you’ve helped me get this far.” Din looks out over the valley. “Why?” 

“I have never met a Mandalorian.” The farmer says. “I've only read the stories. If they are true, you will make quick work of it. Then there will again be peace. I have spoken. ” 

Din lifts a hand, relenting. 

“Thank you.” 

The farmer is already a few meters up the path when he looks back at Din and gives him a single wave. 

The encampment is a mile or so out, sitting in the cradle of the valley, surrounded by a low ridge. The blurrg is happy to bed down in a brush patch, her eyes already half lidded by the time Din gathers himself and walks to the ledge of the ridge. 

Spyglass in hand, he lays down on the rocky ground, and watches. 

There’s little to see; a collection of rundown buildings and huts. What was once probably a military base, now turned into a decrepit hide out. A ragtag group, armed with old pistols. 

A lone figure, walking straight into the encampment. 

Din blinks, adjusting his spyglass. 

“ _ Osik, _ ” he breathes and, with prickling annoyance, scrambles to his feet and begins to jog down the ridges, watching as another bounty hunter steps into the center of the encampment and begins to shout. 

“Subparagraph 16 of the Bondsman Guild protocol waiver compels you to immediately produce said asset!” 

The man has a literal piece of paper in his hands, his tone flat as he reads aloud to the surrounding group. Most look on in a mixture of disbelief and exasperation, Din among them, though he remains hidden behind an outcropping of rocks as he bares witness to the spectacle. It isn’t long before the first shot rings out; it cuts through the man’s speech with a crack, like thunder, followed by a harsh curse. A plume of dust rises from the ground where the bullet hits the ground, having missed the bounty hunter by a few inches. The man is startled nonetheless, whipping out his own weapon and taking aim. From there, it dissolves into complete chaos. 

Din does his best to stay hidden; he slips between buildings, shooting down rooftop gunmen and using his sword when need be. He makes it all the way to the other bounty hunter, unscathed, just as the commotion calms to a tentative standstill. Their both hiding, their backs against the side of a crumbling wall. Beyond their wall, the ground is littered with bodies and bullets. 

The bounty hunter shoots before Din can say anything; it hits his chest, but does little more than make Din stagger slightly from the impact - his beskar holds up, strong as ever. 

“Stand down,” he yells, his voice wheezing slightly. “I’m part of the guild.” 

He flashes the note from Greef, holding it out for the other bounty hunter to read. The man sneers, most of his features hidden by a grey hood. 

“You’re the Mandalorian. One of Karga’s men. I was under the impression that I was the only one on this assignment,” he says, his tone flat despite the obvious irritation in his posture. He lowers his gun - a rather fine weapon, Din notes; one of the newer models he’s seen here and there, though he can guarantee it’s not nearly as good as his own. Din huffs, already thinking of a few choice words he’ll have for Greef once he gets back. 

“That makes two of us…” 

“The bounty is mine,” the bounty hunter says and holds up his stack of papers from before. “I’ve already read the-” 

“From what I can see,” Din interrupts. “You are, as of yet, empty-handed.” 

The other man purses his lips and tucks the papers away. On the other side of the wall, someone shouts. Din tenses, reloading as quickly as he can. 

“I have a suggestion; we split the reward.”

“That is… acceptable.” The man nods, once. “Since we are working together, you may refer to me as IG; it stands for-” 

“I don’t care,” Din says, waving his hand to cut the other man off. 

IG’s lip curls and he looks as though he’s about to say more, when a large boom shakes the ground, throwing him and Din forward. The impact leaves Din reeling, even as he struggles to his feet. Behind him, the wall is blown apart; through the dust and sand, Din can see the long form of something as two men roll it back into position. 

“Is that a fucking  _ cannon _ ,” he bites out, staggering behind a large piece of debris. IG is already there, crouching and pale. Din leans around their shelter; he can see it now, the weapon and its handlers, as well as about four others, each with bows drawn and aimed. Din scowls. 

“They have archers aimed at us.” 

“We should turn ourselves over.” 

Din whips around, looking at the other man with so much disbelief, he’s sure it must bleed through the helmet. 

“Are you crazy?” 

IG shrugs, fumbling to press a piece of his cloak to a wound on his arm, coloring the fabric a dark red. 

“We’d have a better chance of survival if we are to turn ourselves over,” he explains and winces. He shifts, his cloak falling open, and Din catches a glimpse of the crest adorning the left breast of the man’s doublet. “Or, at the very least, we’ll have a quicker execution than if we were to stay and be blown apart here.” 

He looks up, waiting for a response, but Din is too preoccupied staring at the man’s chest; the doublet is threadbare in places and the crest is faded, but Din has no issue recognising the symbol. A claymore, wrapped in ivy and piercing the head of an ox. He feels his mouth go dry and he looks away, gathering his thoughts. 

“Mando…?”

IG is waiting for an answer. When he receives none, he goes to stand, placing his weapon on the ground and clearly intent on following through with his plan. Din grabs his arm before he can blow their cover, forcing him back down to the ground. 

“You want your half of the reward?” he hisses and the man splutters. 

“We’re never going to survive-”

“Shut up,” Din growls and releases him, drawing his sword. “We’re fighting our way out of this. If you try to turn yourself over, I’ll string you up and make you wish you had died in that cannon explosion.” 

IG is watching him with wide eyes, his face ashen. Din adjusts his grips on his weapons and shifts his stance, taking a deep breath. 

“Besides,” he says, his finger on the trigger of his pistol. “Even if you turned yourself over, I doubt these people who allow you the luxury of a quick death.” 

With that, he steps out from behind the rubble and shoots; one of the cannoneers goes down, dropping silently. It startles the other cannoneer long enough for Din to reload and fire again. The other falls, clutching his neck, and Din makes a break for it; all around him, others scramble to take aim, loading their weapons with frantic hands. A few of them manage to shoot, but those that do are clumsy in their aim, too panicked to focus. 

_ Untrained, _ Din sneers as an arrow misses him by nearly a foot, despite the archers being almost directly in front of him. 

Din reaches the cannon with ease, wasting no time in drawing his sword. The archers scramble, some drawing simple daggers and knives, with a few stupid enough to try and take aim. 

Din cuts them down with ease, their blows bouncing off his beskar in a way that’s almost comical. Din roars, ripping a bow from the last one’s grasp as he slices across their torso. The archer cries out and falls, leaving Din surrounded by a mess of bloody stillness. 

  
  


He takes a moment to breathe, the thrill of the fight rushing through him in a way he rarely feels these days, and grabs one of the fallen’s quivers. 

A shot rings out, nearly grazing his side, and he looks up to see a few of the men on the roofs taking aim once more. 

“ _ Haar’chak _ !” He spits, ducking a little behind the cannon for cover. He clutches the bow close, considering his options, when he hears footsteps; IG is sprinting towards him, his own pistol back in hand. 

The man turns as he runs, shooting at the rooftop. He misses, but makes it to Din’s side and begins to reload. 

“I’ll cover you, just shoot the damn thing.” 

“I’m not  _ using _ the cannon!” Din grits out and strings an arrow. 

“You’re going to shoot them with a bow?!” IG cries and Din almost laughs at the fear in his eyes. 

He feels manic with adrenaline as he takes aim and lets an arrow fly; it finds its mark, blooming from the chest of a rooftop gunman, but Din doesn’t waste time watching him fall. He simply takes another arrow from the quiver and repeats, again and again. Beside him, IG continues to shoot and reload. Bodies hit the ground in steady succession and Din can’t help but feel satisfied with each ‘thump’ on the dusty ground. His hand burns from the bowstring, even through his gloves, but the pain is familiar and warm in a way he doesn’t think others would understand. 

By the time the last body falls, hitting the ground with a sickening crack, Din’s chest is heaving and can feel sweat gathering at the base of his neck. IG is panting as well, favoring his left side.

“You shoot well,” he says, breathless. Din looks at the bow in his hands. 

“I’m a Mandalorian.” 

He ties the bow to his belt, the weight of it familiar despite its lackluster make, and goes about collecting more arrows. He straightens once he’s finished, and nods to the door of the main building, holding up Greef’s paper. 

“Arvala, Encampment 50, Building 7,” he reads and IG hums. 

Together, they begin to walk. 

The double doors of the building are heavy; dark wood enforced with iron. A simple push proves them to be bolted from the inside. Din sighs and runs a gloved hand along the wood, following the grain. The target must’ve heard them coming by now, must’ve gone and hidden when the shooting began. They’re losing precious time. 

“You don’t happen to have anything that can blow up doors in your arsenal, Mando,” IG says, leaning against the door. Din glares at the man, about to retort, when an idea enters his head and he slowly turns to look at where the cannon sits, abandoned in the middle of the encampment. IG lets out a low whistle. 

A minute later and the two of them are struggling to turn the weapon, pushing with their entire bodies in an attempt to line it up with the door. 

“We can’t… aim for the… middle,” Din grunts and he shoves. “We could risk… hitting… the target.” 

“You… know how to… use one of these… right?” IG gasps. Din nods jerkily. 

He hasn’t used one in a long time, sure, but stars be damned if the Mandalorians weren’t thorough in their training.

When the cannon is finally lined up, aimed to take out the bottom of the doors and destroy their support, Din lights it, yanking IG back as the ground shakes from the force of the cannon’s boom. When he looks back up, the bottom of the doors have been blasted away; it only takes a moment before they fall. 

“Let’s go,” he says and IG follows at his heels. 

  
  
  


Inside the building, it is dark; the air is stale, as if the inside hasn’t seen fresh air in a long while. It doesn’t look to have seen much living in a while, either; old furniture, wooden chairs and tables that have long since rotted, lay scattered throughout the rooms. Tattered fabric is all that remains of curtains and tablecloths. 

What must have once been a sitting room is now nothing more than old debris. Din and IG pick their way carefully through the mess, quiet. Now that the fighting has stopped, Din can’t forget the image of IG’s crest. He feels an anger and a fear he hasn’t felt fully in a long time simmering beneath the surface, a sort of tension building in his chest. He keeps the other man in his peripheral, taking care to always have him on his right, where his sword is still held tightly in his grasp. 

The sound of fabric shifting draws both their attention. 

IG points towards the far corner of the room, where a table has been toppled over and is resting against the wall, covered in a shappy blanket. Something moves beneath the blanket, pushing further back into the wall. Din holds out a hand for IG to stay where he is and, using his sword, he slowly lifts the edge of the blanket. 

There’s a small whimper, a shuffle of limbs, and then Din is staring into wide eyes, deep brown and brimming with tears. 

“Well,” IG says and Din feels the air leave his lungs. 

It’s a child, sitting in soiled clothes, too big, and clutching what looks to be some sort of sack. He looks up at Din, blinking at the sudden light. Din falters, lowering his sword.

“That can’t be…” But his voice dies as the child moves, his poor excuse for a shirt slipping from his shoulder.

There, inked into the skin over the child’s collarbone, is a mace. 

The skin is red and raw. The tattoo is clearly infected. Din feels a wash of anger come over him at the sight, only amplified as the child reaches up, only to wince as the skin is stretched. 

Another whimper escapes the little thing and Din feels something in his chest tighten. 

Beside him, the click of a trigger pulls him from his shock and he jerks to his right, where IG is standing, his pistol pointed at the child. 

“No,” Din says and grabs his arm. IG cocks his head, his expression blank. 

“My orders were to terminate the target. I’m just following orders.” 

Beneath the shifting fabric of his cloak, Din sees the crest. 

IG’s pistol is pointed at the child and Din is back in the dark of an old cellar. Light falls upon the child and Din is once again blinded by the light of the sun as the cellar doors fly open.

There’s a pistol in his face and figure dressed in grey and a crest that gleams; the Claymore, the Ivy, and the Ox head. 

Din tightens his grip on IG’s wrist. 

“You’re a D.R.O.I.D.” he says, voice flat, and IG eyes flick down to Din’s sword. 

The blade trembles where it’s pressed against IG’s side.

“Drop your weapon,” Din growls. IG’s eyes widen, but he remains calm as he brings his other hand up to grip the hilt of Din’s sword as well. 

“Mandalorian,” he warns and Din sees his finger tighten on the trigger. 

Din moves without thinking, shoving the blade forward as IG’s pistol goes off, the bang reverberating throughout the room. Din pushes IG away, the man staggering back with a wet gasp and falling against the wall, hands scrambling weakly to clutch as his side. 

Din whips around, panic nearly choking him. There’s a smoking hole in the wall where the bullet landed and beneath it, shivering as he curls around himself, is the child. Din takes a step forward, sheathing his sword, and kneels. 

“Hey,” he says, soft, and breathes a sigh of relief when the child looks up, face blotchy with tears. 

Oh. Oh, Din knows how this goes. 

The child reaches out with a chubby hand. He’s really just a toddler, can’t be older than two. Din’s hand is caught in a small grip and the child has the audacity to giggle, as if the near-death of a bullet above his head means nothing. He holds onto Din’s hand, fingers playing with the seams in the leather of the glove and Din smiles. 

Din knows how this is  _ supposed _ to go. 

Din is a Mandalorian, of course. So he knows. 

His smile falls. Din is a Mandalorian, but he is a bounty hunter, too. A bounty hunter whose people have fallen and who survives payment to payment and who has tried to bury all of  _ Before  _ beneath  _ After _ , except here is  _ Before _ , staring up at him with eyes too big and too young and too full of something that Din hasn’t been for a long time. 

The child leans forward, letting go of Din’s hand to reach up in a universal sign that even Din recognises, trust written clear as day on his face, and Din takes him in his arms, sword forgotten on the ground beside him. 

Din is a Mandalorian, so he knows what’s supposed to happen next. 

But the Mandalorians are gone and Din is a bounty hunter, so he shifts the child to his hip, picks up his sword, and steps over IG, leaving through the open doorway. 

When he steps outside, the child in his arms smiles, pointing at the setting sun.

Din ignores him and begins the long trek back to the blurrg. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:
> 
> Buir - Parent (neutral)  
> Aliit - Family/Clan  
> Osik - dung/shit (a curse)  
> Harr'chak - Damn it (a curse)


End file.
